


The Milk of Paradise

by white_serpent



Series: The Paths of Glory [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 06:24:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5817505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/white_serpent/pseuds/white_serpent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Nor All, That Glisters, Gold."  Sirius tries to lose himself after Regulus' funeral.  Snape finds him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Milk of Paradise

Firewhiskey's pretty damned hypnotic in a crystal shot glass. Not hypnotic enough not to bolt it down, mind, but pretty. I toss back the shot, then set the glass back down on the dark wood bar. The bar has been rubbed shiny with years of use. The empty glass skates back and forth between my hands, barely losing speed as it slides. I catch and hold it in my right hand. "Thanks for coming, Moony." James hadn't been able to break away from pregnant Lily, so I'd asked Remus instead. I look up at him. 

"To your brother's funeral, Padfoot? Of course." He smiles; his hazel eyes are warm.

I smile back. Then I look back down at the bar. My glass is empty again. The pub's dim, even now, just after noon. My barstool isn't entirely level-- I don't know whether it's the stools itself or the old plank floor. Voices are low behind me; with the dim light and the slight fuzz of alcohol, it seems almost like no one else is there.

No one else-- even Remus. I've already forgotten he's here, so it's a shock when he speaks. "It was a nice funeral, I think." Remus is usually quiet, but today he seems to feel compelled to make conversation. I wish he wouldn't. Then again, if I didn't want to talk, why did I cast about for a friend to come with me?

Nice thing about some Wizarding pubs; to get a refill, you need only wave your hand in a certain gesture across your empty glass. Those pubs are always a good choice if you want to get drunk fast. A quick signal and I've another full glass of Firewhiskey waiting for me. "Too many of Regulus' friends came." I toss back the glass of Firewhiskey. Can't claim it tastes good, but I'm looking forward to the fuzzing of perceptions. It's taking me a long time to get there.

I hear a sigh, and I hear the implied rebuke-- for the drinking as well as the words, no doubt. He never said it at school, and he doesn't say it now. I know Remus doesn't like the way James and I treated the Slytherins at school. It's not as if we were wrong about them, though, is it? Which reminds me--

"What'd you and Snape have to talk about anyway?" I hear the bitterness in my own voice.

Remus' response is mild. He's always so fucking reasonable. "I haven't seen him since the leaving feast. I asked what he'd been doing." 

"Wasn't _that_ generous of you. He hates you, you know." Well, yeah, he hates Moony. Not as much as he hates me, of course.

"Padfoot--" It's another sigh conveying exasperation; he might as well just say "Grow up."

"He does."

"Surely that's my business and not yours? He was polite"-- "politer than you" is implied but remains unsaid-- "and he seemed upset Regulus was dead."

I laugh. Remus flinches. Maybe the Firewhiskey is having an effect on my perception of volume, even if my head's still lamentably clear. "Upset? Snape doesn't care. Never did. If he's at the funeral, he thinks _pretending_ to care will get him ahead." 

"How did this become a discussion about Snape, anyway?" Remus' voice is light.

I signal for another drink. It's Remus' fault, of course. If he hadn't talked to Snape, it wouldn't have come up. "I wish James had come." I realize after I say it that it's probably an insult-- hell, it _is_ one-- I wish James had come instead of Remus. _James_ wouldn't have rebuked me for disliking Snape after my brother's funeral. Well, if Lily wasn't about, he wouldn't have.

"Lily's doing poorly this week, you know. He doesn't want to leave her."

I grunt in response. He says this like I don't know it. Of course I know it. Doesn't change a damned thing about what I wish. People get married and they drop off the face of the earth. Oh, they say they won't. They're your _friends_ , and you think nothing much will change. It does. I see him at order meetings, but we're not grinning at each other when Moody says something insane or Dung sleeps through another meeting and comes out with another corker when he wakes up. Now, James is always watching Lily.

"It's just until the baby's born."

I shake my head and toss back my new glass of Firewhiskey. I've finally had enough that the world blurs when I move my head. "It's not, then. He's been like this since seventh year when she smiled at him. Just gotten worse since Lily fell pregnant."

He places a hand over mine. "He's happy, Sirius. You'll find someone yourself, and then--"

"Yes, and then so much for the ancient and noble house of Black."

Not as if his hand was moving on mine, but it stills. "Sirius?"

Remus is probably thinking something completely cracked-- not what I mean. So, right, lesson is, don't get drunk. I'm not good with lessons. "Regulus was the family's great white-- ha! maybe black-- hope."

He sighs. "I know your family are--"

I jerk my hand free of his. "They're Dark Wizards. So was Regulus, more fool him. But that's not what I mean."

"What _do_ you mean, Padfoot?"

"I'm queer, Remus."

"I see." He's still on an indrawn breath again. 

You know, it might be wiser if I'd think, sometimes-- look before leaping. "It'll never be like it is for James and Lily. Not for me."

He doesn't respond, and I'm suddenly furious.

"No helpful lies about my bright future now?"

He shakes his head. "You surprised me. I didn't know." And he's calm again. I wonder sometimes how many secrets he hides behind that imperturbable mask.

"The fact that I never had a girlfriend didn't give you any hint?"

"It wasn't something I considered. But, Sirius, you may still find someone--"

"Face it, Moony, it'll be worse if I do." I take it he's not, then. And I realize now that I had wished he were. I told him because I wanted him to say, "Really, Padfoot? So am I. How about it?"-- or some equivalent sort of thing that Remus would actually say. It's not that I'm extremely attracted to Remus; he's familiar and comfortable. I guess "familiar and comfortable" are probably not good reasons to risk our friendship. So, bad bet. To his credit, he's not flinching away from me. James might've, best friend and all. That's why I've never told James, and hope I never will. I left my own family, James' parents are dead-- I _can't_ lose James. Remus has not been indoctrinated with the necessity of continuing the pure bloodline and all that rot. He's also damned good at keeping his own counsel. Stupid as I was to tell him, he'll not tell James.

I look at him to see his head tilted slightly to his right. There are frown lines between his brows; he's studying me: he probably knows some of what I'm thinking. He shakes his head. 

At least I'm spared his sympathy; thank God. I turn back to my drink.

His voice is gentle. "Padfoot, do you want to talk more about Regulus?"

"Hell, no. I want to get drunk."

"That's not a particularly mature--"

"Fuck mature. My brother's dead. My best friend's too busy to be here. And you-- and I--" Well, _that_ at least I manage to leave unsaid. "And I've had to deal with my mother and with bloody _Snape_ of all bloody people today." 

He sighs. "Do you want me to stay?"

I shake my head sharply. "Go on." I don't want him around; I don't need a reminder of how stupid I was. Besides, the moon's full tonight; he'll have to leave soon anyway. Moonrise comes early in March. In fact, I'd suspect my mother of planning the funeral deliberately for a day when Lily would be ill and the moon would be full-- but that credits her with omniscience. This is nothing but ordinary bad luck.

"All right. Take care, Padfoot." His hand touches my wrist lightly and he slides off the barstool and moves away. 

I wave again to fill my glass.

***

I am drunk. Pissed. Not tipsy, or tiddled, or any other twee and precious little words used by simpering women. I'm as plastered as the unlimited budget I inherited from Uncle Alphard can make me.

Regulus is still dead.

And unlimited shots of Firewhiskey aren't appreciably altering that.

Well, you know you aren't drunk enough when you can think the word "appreciably" without your brain tripping over itself, right?

I wave for another drink, straining to focus on the amber glisten of the whiskey hitting the glass. "Amber glisten"-- pretty poetic, huh? We studied poetry in Muggle Studies, you know.

Some of those poets doped up to the gills-- like-- what's his name-- Cole-something. Man after my own heart.

I try to get the damned glass of Firewhiskey to hold still long enough to grab it, then toss it back.

I slam it to the bar and wave over the glass again. 

Not as if we got on, either, Regulus and me. Bit of a prat, he was. No fucking spine. Off to Slytherin like a good little pureblood-- _toujours pur_ , "Noble and Most Ancient House of Black," and all that tripe my mother used to sling about.

Well, hell, she probably still does. Wouldn't know.

Da's dead now, though, so who the hell's going to listen? The house elves?

Not my problem. Don't give a rat's arse what she's doing. 

She didn't even invite me to the funeral. Didn't stop me from coming. Still, hell with the lot of ‘em. 

Least I'm getting another drink.

Wonder if I could write something on Firewhiskey: "Amber glistens; whiskey listens..." Pretty good. Amaze myself, sometimes.

But, yeah, see, Regulus bought into all that tripe. Signed himself up with the Dark Lord-- not that anyone knows that, but I'm not stupid. Got himself killed. Gone, and so much for him. Well, right, and not like he'd spoken to me anytime in the last few years.

So, off getting drunk. James: well, he couldn't come. Doesn't seem fair-- I made a point of going to his parents' and Lily's parents' funerals. Remus: he came to the funeral, but he left earlier-- shouldn't have said what I did, probably. Neither of them would get this. Peter-- well, fuck. I'd rather drink than try to deal with sympathy, right? Don't much like this sitting around and moping-- like to be out doing things. Don't have a choice today.

I looked forward to leaving school. Wonder what I thought there was to look forward to? I miss running in the Forbidden Forest at full moon. I miss playing pranks. Adulthood means you don't get to do either. Another drink knocked back.

I start to wave for another one but my hand won't move. Coupla tugs at it before I give up and look. Someone's holding it down on the bar.

For all the fact my brain still works, my eyesight's shot for shit. All I see is black and white. Wonder if Firewhiskey fries color vision?

"Don't you think you've had enough, Black?"

Ears still work too, then. "Snape?" No wonder I see only black and white.

"Very good."

"What're you doing here?"

"It's a pub, Black. The hell you think I'm doing?"

"Ah." I tug at my wrist again. "Need another drink."

"Much as I'd hate to deprive the last scion of the noble house of Black from dying of alcohol poisoning, your death might cause a commotion which would interfere with my drinking."

"Oh, sod off then."

"You're still a joy."

"Got reason." Snape should know it, too. He was at the funeral; one of the last people I would have wanted to see there-- after the Dark Lord and my mother.

"Do let me guess. Sainted Potter not keeping you company?"

James hadn't come to the funeral-- Remus had. I've not seen much of James since Lily fell pregnant. I feel a rush of betrayal. "As if you care."

"I don't; you're right." His voice is filled with smug satisfaction.

"Let go." I struggle to free my hand again. He's winding me up, I know. It always works.

"No, I don't think so."

It amazes me that Snape can pack so much malice into a simple sentence. I can be nasty too. "Careful, Snape. Might get the idea you want to touch me."

Probably not my wisest turn of phrase. His hand tightens on my arm. Hurts like hell. I jerk my arm, trying to loosen his grip. Even through blurry eyes, I can see his knuckles are white. And-- did I mention?-- it hurts like hell. I'm too drunk to break it. "Let go, Snape."

And, of a sudden, he releases me. His hands press smooth against the bar. His voice, too, is smooth-- too light, actually-- when it comes. "I've no interest in touching you."

I'm shaking my arm, trying to restore blood flow, trying to shake off the pain in my wrist. Fucking humiliating he's got such a grip-- who knew?

"No? Good on you, mate." It's the drink that makes me honest. Ordinarily, I'd be wiser. Today is apparently my day for things to come directly out of my mouth without my brain interfering. "'Cause if you wanted to, I'm game."

And, damn, still watching those hands-- they clench together in a ball. "I'm not interested."

"Not your style?" 

"It's a poor jest." No satisfaction this time; his voice is preternaturally calm.

I'm reckless now. "April Fool's is tomorrow. Today, I'm serious. You suck me, I'll suck you. Or, hell-- replace either ‘s' with an ‘f'-- I don't care."

His knuckles are white again; hell, I know how that grip hurts. I wonder if he'll break his own hand, clutching like that. My wrist still aches. "Hardly."

And I'm wishing-- remembering my insane month-long obsession when I was sixteen-- I'm wishing that there was really a Selena. Maudlin drunk, now. Only girl I've ever wanted. And I'm also remembering that scene by the lake: the second one.

Despite-- or because of-- the amount of Firewhiskey I've drunk, I feel my cock hardening and, God, it's humiliating. Hope he doesn't notice. It's the voice, of course, the way he lets things drop and slash and burn without thinking of consequences.

Then I twig to the meaning of his hands.

I may be drunk as a lord-- oh, and how appropriate for the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black-- but I'm not far enough gone to understand what those clutching fingers mean. Slower than usual, though. He's always been ugly-- his hideous nose, his sneer, his greasy hair. But I'm horny, he's interested, and why not?

I lick at my lips, tasting the Firewhiskey on them-- odd that as much as passed through my mouth, I can still taste more. "It doesn't have to be a joke."

The glass breaks between his fingers, scattering the bar with crystal shards. He swears. His hand drips blood as he snatches it away from the sharp glass pieces. He mutters, _"Reparo,"_ then a mild healing charm. As distractions go, it's excellent. Wonder if he thinks I've forgotten the topic of discussion?

"I've a room," I offer.

His hands lay flat against the bar. It looks awkward, and smacks of a deliberate restraint. "I doubt you mean it." His voice is light-- but it's like the hands, too deliberate and too controlled. "You're plastered to boot."

"Yeah."

Snape's right hand moves, and he picks up the wand he left resting on the bar after his healing charm. Is he hexing me? He waves the wand in my direction, then lightly taps my wrist. _"Detoxify."_

It _is_ a hex. Tonight, it's the cruelest of dark magics. The alcohol leaves my system in a rush-- no time for my liver to play with it-- and leaves me in the sadly sober realization that my brother is dead and I've propositioned Severus Snape-- of all people-- three times already tonight. The shock is enough to send me nearly facefirst into the bar.

"No more professions of love?" The voice still cuts me.

At least I can respond to that statement. "I've never professed undying _love_ , Snape."

"My mistake."

I sit in silence, spinning my empty glass between my fingers. All the galleons I've spent on Firewhiskey have drained away to less than nothing. "That's a hell of a lot of Firewhiskey you've just put to waste, Snape. I should make you pay my tab." With that jab, I can look up again. He doesn't meet my eyes. I realize to my shock that I am relieved that he does not.

"I'm certain you can afford it." He pauses. "You should be grateful. Just think: I could have taken you up on your offer."

I laugh. He flinches at the bark. I wonder if he hears the bite in my response? "You'd never do that."

"You assume I have scruples? How interesting, Black."

"Oh, give over. Scruples have sod all to do with it, Snape." I've never been good at repressing impulses, and I'm not seeing things in quintuple anymore. I reach over and grab his hand-- his right. At least he can't hex me that way. "You won't do it simply because I want it."

Despite the healing, there are still traces of blood on his fingertips. I bring the fingers to my mouth.

He's looking at me now. If his eyes weren't already jet black, I think they'd be dilated with surprise. As it is, I can't tell.

And, God, this is stupid. I lick the blood drops off his index finger. He draws breath in a sharp sound. His finger tastes of whiskey and the curdled copper sweetness of blood.

"I thought _I_ was rumored to be the vampire, Black."

It's not the flat rejection I expected, but it's not acquiescence either. He's forcing me to say it. I let his hand drop. "If it wasn't clear, then, the offer's still open. I've a room upstairs." I'd gotten it to keep from splinching myself on the way home; I'd even made arrangements for the barman to cart me upstairs when I passed out. Talk about planning ahead for my drinking binge; impressive, isn't it? I'm still watching his eyes.

"Well, well." His voice is hoarse-- at least it's lost that false smoothness. "How very interesting. I was told you were, but I didn't believe it."

I shrug. "Why not? It's not as if I ever had a girlfriend at school." I wonder who told him. Regulus, maybe? He and Snape were pretty chummy those last two years at Hogwarts, but I never thought Regulus knew. 

"You were interested in _Selena,_ Black." I wish I could read his eyes.

"Selena wasn't real." I've never gotten over the resentment for that fact. I wanted Selena. It was the one clean, normal thing I've ever felt. I wanted to buy her flowers and chocolates, kiss her again. For a few weeks, I wasn't queer. I was like any other wizard. Then I learned the truth, and I've known, ever since, that the only reason I wanted Selena at all is that-- deceived as my mind was-- my body must have recognized I was talking to a boy.

He shakes his head. "No. I think I'll pass." There was a pause, then a late addition. "And I'm not interested, of course."

The top of my head is exploding. "If you weren't interested, you'd have hexed me to hell and back. You haven't. You're still here. Upstairs? I won't ask again."

His eyes drop to the bar. If it were only a staring contest, I'd declare victory. As it is, all I know is that I can't catch the slightest clue what he's thinking. His hands lace together, then unlace. His palms press against the bar, and he's turning on the stool and stepping down. He stands there for a long moment, back to me. He's stiff, the tension visible in the slight tremble of his shoulders. The tension's gone, of a sudden, and I think he'll walk away without responding-- a wordless refusal. But when has Snape ever gone without saying something? He turns to look back at me. It's that voice again. "Let's go, Black."

***

I wish I were still drunk as we climb the stairs, keeping an arm's length apart at all times. I wish I were so sloshed I didn't realize I was opening the door. And, God, I wish I were pissed enough that I didn't realize I'm going to fuck Severus Snape. But I'm not; I'm sober, and so is he.

I glance at him; he's still remarkably ugly: yellowing, crooked teeth, greasy hair, hooked nose. The teeth and nose he could even fix, easily enough. Remus is much better looking.

Remus isn't here. Snape sneers at me as we enter the dimly lit room. "Backing out, Black? I'm not surprised. You always took the easy way out."

The surge of anger surprisingly helps. "No." In for a penny, in for a pound-- Muggle Studies teaches some useful expressions. I shove the door to behind me and grab at his shoulders. He's almost as tall as I am. I close my eyes and catch his mouth with mine.

He's stiff-- probably shell-shocked-- for a moment, and then his mouth is opening to my tongue and he's kissing back, hard. It's sloppy, painful sometimes as that long nose jabs my cheek. His tongue twists around mine, pushing deep into my mouth, licking along my teeth.

With my own tongue, I trace his uneven teeth.

His arms are tight around me, pressing me hard against him.

And speaking of hard-- I feel his erect cock pressing against me. I wince as he grinds against me.

I push back, breaking the kiss, and reach up to unfasten his robes. He lets me, but grabs my wrist and shakes his head when I try to push them off entirely.

I ask, "Do you want me to suck you off?"

His eyes close, then open. One corner of his mouth quirks up, giving him an ominous look, and my heart beats faster. "Do it."

I slip fingers into the waistband of his pants. I fall to my knees as I push them down around his ankles. He steps out of them. I look down at the fallen cloth; they're not quite as grey and worn as when we were students. It's an incongruous thought, one that makes who I'm with very real. 

I look away-- up to his cock, red and bobbing before my nose. Size, normal; it's surrounded by a thatch of black hair on pale skin. Before I can think more about what I'm about to do, I wrap my hand around it. I hold his cock steady as I open and close my mouth around it. 

He doesn't taste of soap, but he's clean enough. The taste isn't unpleasant; it's familiar, the taste of precome, the taste of sex. His breath hisses loudly between his teeth and I look up, meeting his eyes. The unpleasant quirk is gone from his lips. His right hand drops, laces through my hair.

I've done this before, eleven times. Three while still at school. I was happy as hell that Filch confiscated the Marauder's Map so that there was no way my friends would know. I don't even remember the boy's name anymore-- blocked it out, I guess. It took us awhile to work up to it; the whole idea of putting your mouth _there_ seemed repellent. Then you felt the sucking wet heat around you, and you realized you'd pay any price to feel it again. 

Since school, it's been more difficult. I stand out in Muggle bars, and the Wizarding World is small enough that word travels fast. I can't have anyone telling James; he's all I have.

I flick at the foreskin with my tongue, feeling the ache in my cheeks as I increase the suction, pull him as deep as I can bear without gagging. Looking up while doing this is hard on my neck, and I look down, only to be pulled back by the tug of his hand in my hair. His eyes lock on mine; does he want to see me doing this, or does he want me to know whom I'm doing it to?

I circle my tongue around the head of his cock, sucking and probing at the slit. He gasps, mouth falling open. I clutch at his hip with my free hand; he's trembling. I move my mouth up and down the length of his cock, continuing to twist my tongue under and around him. I squeeze at the base of his cock with my hand. He's thrusting, now. It's difficult to keep my mouth steady while he moves. I have barely time to think that it shouldn't take long when it's done, and he's shuddering his release into my mouth. The bitter fluid floods over my tongue, and I hold still, continuing to toy with his foreskin until the spurts stop.

I release his cock, then drop my hands and sit back on my heels. I swallow, wiping at my mouth with the back of my hand.

His face is flushed, hectic color alive in his cheeks. His lips are swollen. I hear him breathing in shallow pants.

I sit on the rough wooden floor, knees sore from kneeling, cock aching. I drop my right hand to my lap, rubbing at it.

He moves faster than thought, grabbing my right wrist in his left hand and dragging my hand away from my cock. He grabs my left wrist with his right hand. With strength I wouldn't have suspected from someone as scrawny as Snape, he jerks me up off the floor and shoves me hard against the closed door. I can feel splinters through the back of my robe. I try to lean forward, but he shoves me back again. 

Snape transfers both wrists to his left hand, and, with his right, sweeps down the front of my robes, ripping fasteners open, ripping some off entirely. He reaches into my underwear, dragging it down to my upper thighs. My cock softens; this isn't what I expected, too rough.

One corner of his mouth quirks again. "Backing out?" he asks for the second time.

I give him the same response. "No."

"Good. Watch me."

Still gripping my wrists, he drops to his knees before me. His mouth engulfs my cock and I cry out at the sweet rush of wet heat. He sucks me down. I feel the slight scrape of his teeth against my foreskin. It's enough to make me tense, but not enough to hurt. With a whimper, I push forward into the warmth of his mouth, closing my eyes.

With an audible pop, he pulls his mouth free. It's cold; it's shocking. "You will stay _still_ and you will _watch me_ , Black."

I lean back against the door. I don't like this game of his, but I don't want him to stop, either. He sneers up at me. Seemingly satisfied with my obedience, his mouth encircles me again. I fight to keep my eyes open and to keep still. 

Hot. Wet. Suction. The brush of his tongue. The thrill of fear when I feel his teeth. His dark eyes are fixed on mine, and my vision is graying around the edges, until all I can see is his eyes. They're filled with an expression I can't read, and I don't care. His grip is tight on my wrists, other hand rubbing at the inside of my thighs. Heat is pooling in my groin, centered on my cock, spiraling out. It's hard to remain upright.

Then it hits; I hear myself cry out. I don't know if I'm moving, and I don't know if my eyes are open. All I feel is the heat and the pressure as I come in a series of spurts. I feel the tears in my eyes. He sucks me dry.

When I come back to myself, he's standing in front of me, still holding my wrists. I sag against him, head resting against his shoulder, cheek pressed against the rough wool of his robes. I'm still gasping for air.

He lets my wrists free. They're starting to hurt where his fingers pressed against them. My legs are less shaky; my breathing is returning to normal. I pull back, leaning against the door. I look down, seeing my open robes and their ripped fasteners. My underwear is bunched below my flaccid cock. I glance over; his robes are also still parted, his underwear still wherever we left it, leaving him bare from the waist. His hand moves toward me. I flinch at its touch on my cock, but he just tucks it back in.

There's a sense of unreality about all of this-- I've just sucked off and been sucked off by Severus Snape. It was good, I asked him to, and what do I say?

"Thanks."

He responds with snorted laughter. "I hardly did it for _you_ , Black."

I look him in the eyes. He's smirking again. I shake my head. "Fine." I shove him away. Stepping away from the door, I look around the floor for my wand. Finding it, a quick transfiguration mends the rents in my robes. "Look, Snape, whatever. I don't like you; you don't like me. I don't know why we did this in the first place."

He reaches down to fetch his pants from the floor, then seats himself on the edge of the bed to pull them on. It's odd how controlled he seems, sitting there-- knobby legs and underwear exposed. He rises and starts fastening up his robes, starting with the lowest closure and moving up to his throat. "I believe it had something to do with you begging?"

"Begging? I offered _you_ a chance at something _you_ quite obviously wanted."

"How noble of you, Black." He sneers. "Spare me your charity in the future."

"This was a mistake, _Snivellus._ " Snape flinches back as if I hit him; good. "How about we pretend it never happened."

"Suits me. It will never be repeated."

I reach for the doorknob, prepared to storm out of the room when I check myself. " _You_ get out. It's my room."

"With pleasure." With a final glare in my direction, he sweeps out the door.

Good riddance to him. I lean against the wall, closing my eyes. I can't abide him; I don't know what momentary idiocy possessed me to think I could.

God, how stupid. Of all people to proposition, I chose Severus Snape. Severus Snape, who managed with one little prank to demolish my hope of being normal. Severus Snape, who took Regulus away from me. Severus Snape, whom even the charitable would describe as ugly, greasy, and nasty. Severus Snape, who would probably take joy in sharing every detail of this with James, Lily, and anyone else I've ever known.

Pushing away from the wall, I go out and downstairs. It's nothing more Firewhiskey won't cure.

***

An hour and six drinks later, the Firewhiskey isn't working as I'd hoped. I wave to the barman before climbing back upstairs to my room. I kick off my shoes. With a sigh loud enough to ring in my own ears, I lay down on the bed. I throw my right arm up to cover my eyes. I have a sudden vivid memory of Snape sitting on the edge of the bed and sneering at me.

I've had sex since leaving school, of course, but I'd not wanted my friends to know. I've had a series of quick and fumbling affairs. Before tonight, I'd even thought the sex was good.

My cock is hardening again. I take in a deep breath and let it out, trying to calm myself. It's not working. Behind my eyelids, I see Snape kneeling before me on the floor, mouth open around my cock, black eyes meeting mine. I feel a phantom tingle of pain in my wrists, remembering his tight grip around them.

I sit up and unfasten my robes. I slip out of them, then toss them off the bed and onto the floor, then slide down my underpants. I lie back down, naked. I take my cock in hand and close my eyes. I hadn't liked the restraint, but now I picture myself bound to the bedposts, watching Snape suck my cock again.

I take a firm grip on myself, biting my lip. Like that. Please, like that. The fantasy and the touch combine, and the fantasy starts to lose coherence. It's a series of flashes. Flash-- his black eyes holding mine. Flash-- my arms and legs, bound. And then, a flash-- no more ropes; I picture him flipping me over onto my hands and knees, sliding his cock in me, pounding until I scream. And I'm coming, again, all over my hand, splattering my chest.

I drop my arms to the bed and breathe deep until my heart slows.

Fuck.

I still hate him.

And I think I want him to do it again.

***

It's the next day, and I'm back in my parlor at home. It was actually pleasant to stay in the room at the tavern; it's one hell of a lot cleaner than my house. I have no house elves. The idea of doing my own laundry appeals to me for the simple reason that my parents would have _died_ before doing their own. The idea doesn't appeal enough that the laundry's not piled everywhere.

I should still be grieving over my brother's death, but that's not what I'm fixated on anymore. At first I don't know where to begin-- Hell, it's not as if Snape and I _talked_ to each other. I _still_ don't want to talk to him. I shove a pile of laundry from the couch to the floor and sit down, one arm resting against the arm of the sofa, the other on another pile of laundry.

I could always owl Snape, of course. It'd reach him, wherever he's gone. Snape can, and probably will, ignore my owl. If I want to see him again, I need to track him down in person. I can't give him the opportunity to avoid me. Unfortunately, that leaves me with the problem of finding him-- I've no idea where to look.

Sitting there, I finally remember that Remus had made a point of speaking to Snape at the funeral. That might give me the information I need to find him. All I have to do is learn what he said. 

I could ask Remus myself, of course. But I'd rather not. Fortunately, there's another way to overhear a private conversation.

Thanks to Uncle Alphard, I'm one of the idle rich. It's useful for being part of Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix-- there's no day job to work around-- but somewhat hard on the soul. Days tend to stretch into worthlessness, but, on the upside, it gives me the opportunity to own many otherwise expensive gadgets-- my own house, my own flying motorbike, and my very own Pensieve. 

I remember buying the Pensieve, I've no earthly idea where I keep it. It's probably under a pile of laundry somewhere. With resignation, I make a point of searching under laundry piles in the parlor, then the bedroom. With waning hope, I try the kitchen-- hey, there's no laundry or food there; the Pensieve should be easy to find. Still nothing.

So, buck up. It takes me three hours to get through the laundry. Then I'm just left with the usual detritus of my life-- Quidditch rags strewn about the parlor. 

I have, however, uncovered my Pensieve-- helpfully placed under the very last pile of laundry I examined. It's sitting on an old center table in the parlor. Even for the idle rich like me, a Pensieve is expensive. I bought the economy model, around a foot in diameter, stone, a bit crafty-looking on the symbols carved on the edge. From time to time, the memories skip and stutter when you're inside them, but it works well enough. I usually use the Pensieve, sad to say, as a substitute for sex. 

I don't think it counts as voyeurism if you're watching yourself. 

It's tempting to relive sex with Snape the same way, but my goal here is to have more of it, not wank to watching myself.

I carry a carved chair over to the center table, then put my wand to my head to draw out the memory of the funeral. I don't want to relive the entire funeral. I want to relive those few minutes, not long after. I was standing alone in the cemetery, wanting to leave, but waiting while Remus once again extended a friendly hand to Snape. I bookend the memory-- from the point when Remus first got within arm's length of Snape to when we both left the cemetery. I pull the memory out and drop it into the fluid, where it swirls, bright silver. Steeling myself, I touch it with my wand. The liquid swirls faster and faster, and I lean forward and fall into the memory.

 

***

_As always, it takes me a few moments to recover from the fall, but here I am, watching._

Memory-Sirius stood alone on the fringes of the crowd of mourners, tapping his foot. The day was gray. The cemetery was filled with dark shadows in Wizarding robes. They were clustered around the outside of a massive marble mausoleum. Mother stood in front of the crowd, ostentatiously wiping her eyes with a black handkerchief, while others in dark robes came up, murmured something, then walked away. Some briefly rested a hand on her arm.

_I vaguely remember that Snape spoke to Mother before Remus. Maybe I should have snagged that memory, as well. Still, it was only a moment. Likely nothing more than a typical "sorry for your loss."_

Memory-Sirius hadn't had a burning desire to leave until Remus had left to speak with Snape.

_I drift to the boundaries of the memory, close enough to hear the conversation between Snape and Remus._

Snape stood silently in the midst of a crowd of chatting mourners. His black robes hung loose as always, hair twisting greasily about his shoulders. "Severus?" Remus reached out and touched Snape on the shoulder.

Snape spun quickly, then stepped back. A familiar sneer crossed his face, one nostril flaring. "Lupin."

"I haven't seen you since Hogwarts. How have you been?"

The sneer remained, but Snape no longer seemed poised for a fight. "Well enough, Lupin."

Remus nodded. "I remember Regulus was a close friend of yours. I was sorry to hear of his death."

Snape nodded sharply. "Surely you should be telling Black that. If that is all--"

Remus shook his head. "No. We knew each other at school, Severus. I'm curious what you're doing now."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Research."

Remus smiled. "Ah. You always were one of the best Potions makers our year-- you and Lily. You were much better than me, certainly."

"Thank you." The matching social courtesy seemed dragged out of him. "And you, Lupin?"

"Oh, me. I'm a minor-level functionary at the Ministry, I'm afraid. It pays the bills."

For a moment, there was a glint of humor in Snape's eye. "I've heard they've a generous holidays policy," he said with a smirk.

Remus shot Snape a quick glance; he looked angry. His voice was typically calm, however. "Yes, they have."

_I don't understand for a moment, and then I do. Snape's mocking Remus' condition-- subtle, but clear. What a bastard._

Snape smirked again. "Very good." The smirk smoothed. "The research is interesting, but I'm thinking of applying again at Hogwarts to teach."

"Defense Against the Dark Arts?" Remus blinked several times.

"Quite so." Snape's lips pressed together.

Remus blinked again. "Teaching?"

"Indeed."

"Well, Severus, I'm certain you'd do well at it."

Snape shook his head. "Such diplomacy. I've little desire to teach. I prefer Hogwarts to home, however."

"Ah." Remus shifted from foot to foot. "I enjoy being back home."

"I'm certain you do."

"Well, I'm certain Sirius would sympathize with you."

"Ah, yes, Black." Snape shrugged. "So, Lupin, I think you've completed your prefectly duties for the day."

"Is that a request to leave you alone?"

"If you wish."

Remus gave Snape a quick smile. "Again, it was nice to talk to you, Severus. You're right, though, I should be going. Sirius will want to be off."

Snape inclined his head and Remus turned and walked away, picking his way through the crowd.

_Memory Sirius and Remus would be leaving soon. I stay close, watching Snape._

Snape's lips held a bitter twist.

A man with curly brown hair, blue eyes, and a round face touched Snape on the shoulder and he looked back. 

_He seems familiar; someone from school, though I can't recall the name._

"What'd Lupin want with you?" His voice is low.

Snape shrugged. "Apparently, he feels it's required to say hello."

"Not to me."

Snape turned fully around; his eyes narrowed. "You have a point to make, Avery?"

"I was under the distinct impression that you didn't like him." Avery's voice held a warning.

Snape appeared unimpressed. "Meaning what? He said hello, we exchanged pleasantries. There's that."

"I see."

"And you're hardly my keeper."

"After-- "

"Not here." The words were sharp. "We're none of us as stupid as he was. You remember what Lupin's like. Leave over."

Avery's blue eyes narrowed in turn. "I suppose you don't meet many people of interest in Yorkshire. I've no idea how you stand it."

Snape shook his head sharply. "I said leave over, Avery. Now, did you learn anything?"

"No. You?"

"Hardly. This was a waste."

At this, I am dragged back out of earshot. Memory-Sirius and Lupin had finished their first argument over speaking to Slytherins and turned to leave.

***

Having reached the end of the memory, I rise back out of the Pensieve and find myself back at my table, sitting in a wooden chair. I lean it back on two legs, considering.

I'd like to know what Snape and Avery were discussing, though it's probably nothing more than typical Slytherin brown-nosing. Part of me can't get beyond the amusement that Snape-- with his bloody delusions of bloody grandeur-- is in _Yorkshire_ doing Potions research. He's probably desperate to cobble together any sort of patronage. He'd have to be, to apply to Hogwarts. 

I draw the memory back out of the Pensieve with my wand.

In the end, I face the fact that I've learnt very little. Snape's in Yorkshire, with his family. I suppose I've also learnt that, if Remus thinks Snape is more polite than I am, I'm one hell of a bastard.

I've still no idea where to find Snape. What, then, am I going to Yorkshire and casting randomly about for him? 

Using the Pensieve wasn't a bad plan, but I'm back where I started. I'm going to have to ask Remus. If he doesn't know, he can find out.

Until then, I can use the Pensieve for its intended purpose. 

I draw out my memory of last night-- from the point we entered my room until the point he left it. I watch the memory swirl in the Pensieve for a moment before entering.

***

_Remus_ spends his days at work, so I owl to meet him after, next day. I offer to buy him dinner and apologize for being rude.

The advantage of owling the invitation is that he can't see my face and draw alarmingly accurate conclusions. I've no skill for deception. He owls back to accept the invitation.

Some part of me ought to feel guilty. Two days ago, I was sending out feelers in Moony's direction. If he'd shown any sign of interest, I'd have fallen into bed with him. He didn't. Now I'm trying to pry enough information out of him to learn where to find _Snape_ of all bloody people so that _Snape_ can fuck me to oblivion. Yes, some part of me ought to feel guilty.

I'm a real bastard sometimes.

Dinner is at Remus' favorite Muggle pub with good fish and chips. Unlike most wizards, I'm not bad at dressing in Muggle fashion. We find a tiny table in the corner to eat and talk, sipping at pints. It's working nicely. He smiles at my apology, and we chat about his job. Sounds dull.

A little further, and, "I'm sorry I was so rude to you about Snape, Remus."

"You do seem to have something of a blind spot there, Padfoot."

I have a quick flash of Snape kneeling before me as he did night before last-- _"Watch me."_ I think I see Snape all too well, but say, "I suppose. I've never quite forgiven him for trying to get Regulus to break with me." And I haven't, but it has little to do with anything. What I've never forgiven Snape for is not being a fifth-year Ravenclaw named Selena. And I've exhausted what skill I have at beating around the bush. "Look, Moony, I'm here to ask you to help me find Snape."

His eyes narrow. "Why? You weren't much interested two days ago."

I was very interested two days ago, but I'd rather not say that. "He stopped by the bar after you left. We got to talking; I'd like to see him again."

"You'd like to see _Snape_ again." He stares at me. "I don't believe you."

"Moony, I'd rather not say more about it-- "

"You're going to have to if you want my help. I didn't watch you and James go after him all through school to help you do it now."

My face feels hot, and I've a sick feeling at the base of my stomach. I draw in a deep breath. "Moony-- okay, look." Why is this more embarrassing than propositioning Moony and being shot down? "I'll swear to you under Veritaserum that I'm not interested in tormenting him. And you _know_ Snape can take care of himself. Just-- please."

Remus shakes his head slowly, golden eyes locked on my face. He leans back in his chair, and I find myself studying the Muggles in the pub to avoid looking at him. When I steel myself to look back, there is a line between his brows. Finally, his face relaxes. He sighs, a short puff of air escaping his lips. "I'll get you the address, Padfoot."

"Thanks, Moony." I close my eyes. Thank God; he didn't make me say why.

"Watch out, though."

My eyes snap open. "I thought you were telling me he's not so bad, Moony?"

"I said he was polite; I didn't say I like him, Sirius. And-- if you really must-- you could do better." His glance is pointed. I realize that the reason he didn't ask for more information is that he already knew the answer.

"Moony, I..." I don't know where to take the sentence, and my voice trails off, leaving the excuse unsaid. He's right, of course. I could do better. If my face was hot before, it's burning now. The thing is that I don't want to. I wanted Remus because he is calm and familiar. I want Snape because he's neither. And he's not safe, either. The heat in my face drops to my groin. 

I think Remus can read my thoughts in my face; I wish he couldn't. "Like I said, I'll get you the address. Be careful."

"I will."

***

Two days later, I get an owl from Remus with an address in Halifax, some obscure little factory town in Yorkshire. I Apparate to just outside town-- a deserted area where no Muggles will see me pop in. I appear near a river, water black and filthy, choked by refuse. 

I climb up the bank, and find a space to squeeze through a broken railing and onto a cobbled street. I walk into town, a bit more slowly than I usually would. I want to go, and I don't.

I find the street-- more cobblestones. I hate cobblestone streets; we have them in London, of course, but not so many. It's easy to turn your ankle if you're not careful.

My family's house is in Mayfair; mine's decidedly not. But this area is very far from either. It's rundown, coated with soot-- mill chimney clearly visible as I walk past the brick row houses and their grimy windows. I check the house numbers as I pass until I'm finally to the end of the street, standing in front of a house just as small and grimy as the rest.

Standing there, I'm suddenly filled with shame. I don't want to know Snape lives in a place like this. I don't want to compare my life of leisure to his. I want to think of him as I did at school-- an adversary-- an adversary I desperately want to tie me to the bed and-- and the thought seems so out of place when I'm standing in a filthy factory town.

I should have just owled.

But I'm here, and I can't run now.

I walk up to the door and knock.

A few minutes pass with no response, and I consider leaving. But I've come all this way, I tell myself, and I can't leave yet. The door opens a crack, and I'm facing a pale, sour woman with graying mousy hair, a long face, heavy brows, black eyes, and a permanently etched scowl. "Yes?" she snaps.

I can barely see her, much less into the house. I'm glad of it. "I'm looking for Severus Snape," I say, before I lose my resolve.

"He's here. And you are?"

I clench my hands into fists, nails biting deep into my palms. It hurts. "Sirius Black."

Her eyes rake me from head to foot. "I see. What do you want with my son?"

It had been hard enough to get myself here; I never considered I might be stopped at the door by Snape's mother. "I'd like to speak with him, please."

"Would you." Her mouth turned further down. "I'll get him." She shut the door in my face, leaving me standing uncomfortably on the front stoop, with nothing to do but stare at the grimy door and windows. All I can think is that I should have owled, and I don't want to be here-- and he'll likely not come down-- and why do I care so damned much about Severus Snape of all people?

I flinch.

The door opens. This time, Snape's standing there staring at me with his black, black eyes, greasy hair hanging about his shoulders. His skin is as pale as ever, his nose still a hooked beak. I'm wondering again-- what's wrong with me? "Black," he says, pursing his lips.

I repress a shiver at the sound of his voice. "Snape." My lips are dry, and, having come to the point of seeing him, I've no earthly idea what to say.

"Let's go," he says, stepping through the door and shutting it behind him.

He grabs my arm above the elbow and steers me off the stoop and into the street. We've passed a few houses before he speaks again.

"You shouldn't have come."

It's what I've been thinking, but heat is radiating from the grip of his hand on my upper arm. I am no longer concerned about why I've come, what he looks like, or where I am. "I needed to. What I said after-- I'm sorry."

"I see. You hardly broke my heart, Black."

I shake my head. "No. I know."

He stops and shoves at my forearm, forcing me to face him. "What do you want, then?" His eyes lock on mine.

I can't keep images of my fantasies from playing behind my eyes. He steps back a pace, keeping his grip on me. I wonder if he can read my mind, but I say it anyway. "I'd like to do it again."

A pause. "You're a fool."

He's right. "Are you saying no?"

He breaks my gaze and looks over my shoulder. It's a vague look; I don't think he sees anything. "No." His eyes flash back to mine. "When?"

I haven't allowed myself to get that far. "How about now?"

He shakes his head. "Not here."

"Come back to my house in London, then?" I wish I hadn't said it. It emphasizes the differences between us; I don't want to feel guilty about that again.

"All right."

I grab his forearm and Apparate us both before he can change his mind.

I'm shaky when we get there-- the black stretch of Apparition always unbalances me.

It's my parlor we're in. My Pensieve's still sitting on the center table with a chair nearby, and I've Quidditch rags strewn about.

He grabs my wand out of my hand and tosses it away, and I don't stop him. Taking my arm, he pins me against the wall between the parlor and the kitchen, mouth locking on mine. He shoves his body against mine, tongue probing my mouth, teeth knocking against mine. It's hard; it's violent. It's exactly what I craved.

He looses my arms, but I keep them down by my sides.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him reach into a pocket along his side. His hand lifts, and he's holding his wand now. I feel a thrill of terror as my robes vanish. I feel the rough plaster against my newly bared back.

Another wave of his wand and ropes pin my arms to my sides. He pulls his mouth off mine; we're both panting.

"Does it occur to you, Black, that it's fucking stupid to bring a Dark Wizard more powerful than you are into your house, let him take your wand, and let him bind you?"

I swallow. "Yes." I'm not denying any of it. "Now, are you going to fuck me or not?"

He drops his wand into a pocket on the hip of his robes, then grips my cock with his left hand. His right touches my left nipple. His head lowers to my right nipple. I feel the wet slide of his tongue against it-- the heat of his mouth, the occasional stab of his nose, and the greasy brush of his hair along my chest and stomach. His hand is hard and right on my cock. My slight movements in response to his touch cause the ropes to rub against my forearms and the plaster to rub against my back. The pleasure and pain build, playing counterpoint to one another. It's exactly what I wanted-- it's more than I wanted. In a rush, I'm coming over his hand, my head knocking back painfully against the wall.

He keeps squeezing and pulling until my final shudder.

He backs away, lips and fingers releasing my nipples. My vision's still blurred, but I see him pull out his wand. With his murmur, my arms are free. Another gesture, and he Transfigures the come coating his left hand into something clear and shiny. He drops the wand, parts his robes with his right hand, and mutters, "Turn around."

My heart speeds for a moment. I've done this before, as well. I hadn't liked it-- it was dirty and messy, and it hurt.

"Turn around," he repeats, louder.

I do it, bringing my forearms up to brace against the wall. I part my legs, and he's reaching inside me. I feel the jab of his nails. I'm surprised how good it feels, his fingers filling me.

Whatever lubricant he's made, it coats thoroughly and I feel the stretch as he adds additional fingers. I think he's up to four. I'm gasping as he twists them inside of me. I want more. He pulls out his hand and shoves his cock brutally home. God, it burns, even with the preparation, even through the cool lubricant.

His right arm wraps around me, holding me tight against him. It slides up now, his fingers toy with my nipple as he begins to thrust.

He's muttering under his breath and I can't understand what he's saying, but, before long, a few random thrusts hit my prostate and I don't care.

His hand releases my nipple and goes down to encircle my cock again as he thrusts into me, harder and faster. It hurts, and it doesn't. I feel the heat building inside me-- centering around his hand and around his cock. One of his stronger thrusts causes me to bash my forehead into the wall, despite the shield of my arms. He drags me upright, pinning me against him.

I'm coming again-- how-- God!-- and I feel myself clench tight around his cock, shoving and grinding my body back against him, and he's coming, pulses of fluid shooting inside me. I feel warm everywhere. Calm. Loose.

I can't help wondering what my family (well, my mother, now) would disapprove of most-- that I've had sex with a man, or that I've had sex with a poor half-blood. I suspect it's the latter. 

He stays leaned up against me. His arm is still wrapped around my body, supporting me against him. His breath is hot and uneven in my ear. 

Then I feel the bite of his teeth in the juncture between my head and shoulder. He pulls out in a quick motion and backs away.

With him no longer supporting me, I collapse back against the wall, resting my head on my forearms and drawing in deep breaths. I turn around slowly and self-consciously. He's tucking his cock back into his underwear. He reaches down to gather his wand from the floor. He frowns at his left hand, then spells it clean.

I feel the slick of his come sliding from my loosened arse, and the cooling slick of my own wet on the plaster against my back.

Snape reaches up to refasten his robes and then meets my eyes. His own are hooded. He keeps his face blank. He steps over to one of my sofas, sweeping the Quidditch rags onto the floor.

He seats himself and looks at me again. "Get dressed, Black."

I look around and realize he Vanished my robes. "I've nothing to wear."

"I'll wait."

I feel ridiculous with his eyes on my back. I scoop my wand from the floor, then cross the room to go upstairs. I've time for a quick scrub with a wet flannel to remove the drying come. I pull on underwear, trousers, and a jumper before returning to the parlor.

Snape is still on the sofa, greasy and unpleasant as ever. He gestures at me to sit, and I sit across from him, somewhat gingerly. My arse stings, and I feel a right fool for letting him direct me in my own house.

It's mostly, I guess, that I've not planned far enough to know how to respond to this situation. Not that planning's my strong suit, mind you. I wanted him to do-- exactly what he did. I never thought he actually would.

Now we're sitting here in the parlor, wands held casually in our right hands, and I'm at a loss.

His mouth twists. "I wouldn't have picked you for wanting it that way, Black."

I don't pretend to misunderstand him. I only wish I understood myself. "Are you complaining?"

"No." He is still. "Do you want to do this again?"

"I'd like to."

"What terms?"

A corner of my mouth jerks. I can't tell whether I want to smile or frown. "Just this. No soppy romantic lunches or whatnot. We've nothing to talk about anyway."

He lifts his right brow and smirks. "We've never had. When?"

I look up to the ceiling, quickly scanning my barren schedule. Hardly does to seem too desperate, so not tomorrow. Friday's an Order meeting, so-- "Saturday? Here?" I meet his eyes.

A quick shake of his head. "Make it Sunday. Here. Eight."

"All right."

He nods. His dark eyes scan me. In the quiet, I've little to do but stare at him. Why do I want him at all? He sighs, breaking my train of thought. "Black, don't come back to Halifax."

It's the one moment of weakness from him; I don't want to see it. He'll happily dominate me, tie me, and fuck me hard, but he doesn't want me to see the dirty little hovel he lives in with his mother. "I won't." 

It's not as if we're in a relationship, you understand, but I still feel awkward as he nods sharply, rises, steps to the center of the room, and Apparates away.

***

It's nearly three months of the most mind-blowing sex I can imagine. No sooner does a fantasy cross my mind than he's doing it to me. I've been bound to my bed, bound to a chair... shagged in every room of my house. Sometimes he makes me beg him to fuck me. I wonder sometimes, with disquiet, if he's reading my mind. Perhaps our fantasies are just attuned; God knows nothing else about us is.

On the rare occasions we attempt to talk, we almost come to blows before he storms away. He always returns.

He never removes his robes, and I wonder, sometimes, if he still remembers when James and I flipped him over in front of a crowd of students at Hogwarts.

But that's another thing I don't want to think about.

I find myself sometimes with a stupid grin at Order meetings, thinking about what he's done or what I want him to do. I think I catch Dumbledore watching me sometimes, and I know I see distress on Remus' face. Remus never asks. James is fully bound up in pregnant Lily-- or I know he'd see. But he doesn't, and I'm glad of it. I don't want to explain.

***

It's mid-June. He's angry when he arrives. It makes him faster and rougher than his usual wont, but I don't mind.

After, he slams his fist into the wall before fixing his robes. "What is it?"

He freezes at the question. "Dumbledore turned me down."

"At Hogwarts?" It's not difficult for me to act surprised. Scanning my memory for his chat with Remus in the Pensieve is something I've nearly forgotten.

"Yes. Two days ago."

"I'm sorry. I can't imagine you want to teach." I realize I don't know whether he would or not. I resent that he has a purpose. I have the fight against Lord Voldemort, but not much else. I think, not for the first time, that I should go for Auror training. I had the marks.

"Hogwarts has benefits."

I know he means the accommodations-- getting away from Halifax. "Next year, perhaps? The position's frequently open."

His head jerks sharply. "I can't stand this. I'd rather now."

I'm not certain I want to know this much about him. "If you hate what you're doing so much, find something else."

"Easy enough for you to talk, Black, in your life of leisure in this house."

It stings. Why? I don't care about his opinion. "Teach me to show any sympathy. _Christ_ but you're irritating."

"Am I? Then perhaps you'd best be back to your friends, Black. Maybe you can find one of them to indulge your need to be fucked through the mattress right down to the floor. If not the werewolf, Sainted Potter, perhaps? I'm certain he'd do anything for you."

"James? You're mad. He and Lily are expecting a _child_ , you greasy bastard. I don't know why I bother with you."

He leans toward me, wand raised. His response comes through his clenched teeth. "Apparently because I'm the only one stupid enough to get into this with you." 

"I despise you, Snape." I'm clutching my own wand.

"Glad we're clear on that, Black. I'm curious what you think of _yourself,_ given the way you let me fuck you."

"Don't worry. It won't happen again."

"Good. I won't miss it, or your arrogance."

"Fine, then." My heart thunders. It comes to this every time we try to talk to each other. For the moment, I want to kill him, and he wants to kill me. But no matter how bitter our fight, he'll be back.

He's doing up his robes with a series of rough jerks when his hands still on a fastening. "Black. When's the child due?"

My heart is still thundering; it takes me a moment to process the question. It's the first time he's shown any interest in any of my friends. "A bit over a month. Beginning of August, I think. Maybe end of July."

"I see." His fingers clutch at the front of his robes, and his voice is suddenly very calm. I shoot a glare at him; his face is white.

I don't ask; our recent screaming row is proof that we can't discuss anything rationally. Is he jealous that James and Lily are in a permanent relationship rather than whatever the hell we have? God knows I am.

His fingers continue their interrupted movement and he finishes fastening his robes. His face is still white, lips pressed into a thin line.

My heart is finally beginning to slow. "When?" I ask.

"Monday?"

"Eight?"

"Fine."

He steps toward me, laces his fingers in my hair, and pulls my mouth down to his. His tongue drags across mine. It's long, and deep. I feel it in the tips of my fingers. His lips release mine, finally. I'm short of breath. His eyes hold mine; I can't read anything in their black depths. 

He steps back, moves to the center of the room, and Apparates.

I stand there, staring at the space he so recently occupied. My left hand lifts to my lips. We don't kiss often; it's not that sort of relationship. I hope he does it again.

***

His visits are more frequent through June and July. 

The sex is better than ever.

It's early August when I hear from James. The baby's been born; Lily's doing well. They'd like me to be godfather. I could jump for joy.

I'm smiling when Snape arrives. He shoots a quick look at me and I feel my smile widen into a grin. He meets my eyes.

I know better than to talk to him about it-- we'll just argue. Today I'm happy enough to do it anyway. "I'm to be godfather."

"Congratulations." His voice is dry.

"Thanks." Feels strange to have friends my own age with a baby; seems like I ought to grow up. Still, it's good to be irresponsible sometimes. I can teach the kid to play Quidditch. I can train him up in the best pranks.

"When was the child born? Today? Yesterday?"

"Hmm?" It takes a moment for me to notice the questions. I'm still proud they've thought to ask me. "Oh, no. Day before yesterday-- end of July."

"Congratulations again, Black." He reaches for the fastenings of his robes and I remove my own.

For once, he fucks me slowly and carefully. It's not what I usually crave, but, today, it's what I want. For the first time, I wonder if we could make a go of this-- something more than fighting and fucking.

He kisses me again before he goes-- long, slow, and soft. I feel the heat spreading throughout my body. I lace my fingers in his hair; for once, I hardly notice the grease.

"Monday?" I ask, when we finally pull apart. Maybe we could try dinner or something.

"Eight?" His lips turn up slightly at the corners; it's a smile, not his usual sneer.

"All right."

He Apparates out.

***

Monday evening comes and goes with no trace of him. Tuesday passes the same way, as does Wednesday. I consider-- and discard-- the idea of going to his mother's house. I can't. I agreed never to go again, and I'll not owl him, either.

It's a choice he's made. I was a fool for not reading his tenderness-- God, tenderness from _Snape_ \-- as goodbye.

Funny how you can go so quickly from the best day of your life to the worst.

***

Soon, I have more than enough to worry about. There's a prophecy about a baby born the end of July; Voldemort's heard it. Dumbledore thinks there's a threat to baby Harry. James and Lily need to go into hiding.

The Christening's concealed as well: James, Lily, me, a priest. Several months of quick moves later, Dumbledore finally suggests the Fidelius charm-- a way to secure James, Lily, and Harry's location from everyone. Only the Secret Keeper can divulge it. Of course they'll choose me. I'd never betray them.

I can't help wondering if I have already.

Dumbledore thinks one of the Order is passing information to the Dark Lord-- the reason why James and Lily need to flit from place to place. We have a spy of our own, I gather-- the reason why we know to move them. 

I remember how it seemed Snape could read my mind.

But, of course not. No. Snape's many things, but not evil. Surely not. I've done nothing, and Snape won't be back. It was simply good sex; it was nothing to either of us.

I change the wards at my house to be certain of it.

I don't trust myself. And Lupin-- wasn't Lupin always too willing to be friendly with the Slytherins in the first place? He's a dark creature, as well. I can't trust him with James, Lily, and my godson.

Peter. Yes, Peter is a safe choice. We've seen him at Order meetings. Other than that, we've seen little of him since Hogwarts. He's weak. Voldemort and Snape would never suspect him. They'd be certain James would choose me. Of course they would. We're best friends. Always have been.

And if Snape comes back-- he'll not get any secrets from my mind.

It's for the best, really.

***

> And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !  
> His flashing eyes, his floating hair !  
> Weave a circle round him thrice,  
> And close your eyes with holy dread,  
> For he on honey-dew hath fed,  
> And drunk the milk of Paradise.

**Author's Note:**

> Another of my angsty sentence-fragment stories of doom. Sorry. Originally written in 2005. Other usual notes follow.
> 
> The poem this time is Coleridge's "Kubla Khan," from autumn 1797 or spring 1798 (published 1816). The beginning of that poem was written, rather famously, in an opium haze. Alas, Coleridge claimed the writing was interrupted by the "Man from Porlock." The interruption leads to the second portion of the poem. The quoted lines above are the final lines in the poem. Coleridge is my second favorite poet, behind Thomas Gray.
> 
> I'm using Halifax as Snape's home (per June Diamanti). Description taken substantially from Chapter 2 of Half-Blood Prince, though I don't think I've lifted anything directly.


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